


Red Flags and Long Nights

by Dangerousnotbroken



Series: Death and Coffee [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Sex, BAMF!Dean, Barista!Castiel, Light BDSM, M/M, Murder, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee shop AU meets Serial Killer AU, because tumblr user Hawkbishop said:</p><p>    everyone’s always like “omg coffee shop aus pls” and i’m just like omg:</p><p>    Alternate Universe - Serial Killers"</p><p>And it occured to me that they didn't have to be mutually exclusive concepts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Flags and Long Nights

**Author's Note:**

> There's violence and death here, but not super graphic. Everything contained herein relating to the psychology of serial killers is based almost entirely on procedural crime dramas and movies that glamorize murder, or is completely made up on the spot by me. So if you're one of those psychology student people who can identify all the things I've written that are not technically accurate, well, bully for you.  
> All of the things the characters in this story do are bad, and it should not be taken as an endorsement on my part of vigilante justice, murder, or working at chain coffee shops. I do not suggest any of these things as healthy lifestyle choices.
> 
> Work title taken from a song of the same name by "She Wants Revenge".
> 
> Update 9/24/2014-- MJs Wonderland commented that she felt like it could have used more coffee shop to go along with the serial killer bits, and I agreed, so I've added another scene toward the end. I also edited a few tiny things, but nothing big other than the additional sequence.

Customers tried his patience. There was no point in pretending they didn’t. On most days, he felt like he did a passable job of hiding it, veiling the roiling contempt he felt for the pretentious idiots who jostled through the line to mumble out their overcomplicated orders. Every single one of them was a stunned moron and if he said half the things out loud he thought silently while he dealt with them, he’d be run out of the store. The fallout would be staggering. Eventually, he would run out of the very minimal patience he had for this job, but for now, Castiel Novak found a functional rhythm serving overpriced coffee during the day, and doing what he really loved by night.

Running a chain coffee shop was rather low on the list of things Castiel thought he’d end up doing with his life. It ranked well below “genius billionaire” and ever so slightly above “Wal-Mart Greeter.” It was a job, in the sense that it paid the bills and gave him a safe answer at dinner parties when someone asked “So Cas, what do you do?” On some level, he wanted to be able to say something interesting in response to that question. Your job shouldn’t define you, he figured. People who led interesting lives generally had a much more clever answer than a one sentence job description. But as interesting as his private life was, it would never be dinner party conversation. Castiel was a barista, a manager of people, but more importantly, he was a killer.

That’s what most rational people would say, if they knew about his proclivities. Castiel didn’t usually look at it that way. He was an artist, in his own mind. The things you could do with a human body, the things you could do with blood, with pain, if you were so inclined, _that_ was art. Castiel had spent the better part of his adult life exploring those wonderful possibilities, and lately he felt like he’d fallen into a perfect rhythm, a glorious balance between the façade he maintained in the daylight and his real life, the one he lived by starlight, the one they’d hang him for if they got half a chance.

Castiel rarely thought about what would happen if he got caught. He was too smart for that to be a real possibility. He didn’t really have a signature, unless you counted the complete lack of a signature as an actual signature, and the profile of his….acquaintances was a complete cross section of society. He picked them from various parts of town, and if he used a ruse he didn’t repeat, not too close together. Castiel was an artist, yes, an artist, but he wasn’t ready for the public to appreciate his work, not just yet.

“Um, excuse me? I said no whipped cream.” The suit on the opposite side of the bar sneered at him as he handed off the drink he had just finished making.

“Is your name Mark?” Castiel replied, setting the drink down on the counter with a smile on his face that did not extend up to his eyes.

“No.” the suit replied, disdainful and cocky.

“Then it’s not your drink,” Cas smiled back, but in his mind, he sneered and spat expletives and cut the man’s throat. Instead, he poured the requisite two shots of espresso into a cup of dark roast coffee, added seven, _seven_ pumps of caramel syrup, and handed it the haughty asshole in the thousand dollar suit. “I think this one’s you, Gregory?” The suit took the drink with a huff and stormed away, and Cas felt buoyed by the fact that he’d pissed the guy off without even really trying. These people, sometimes. Seriously.

Castiel was starting to get anxious. It had been nearly a month since he’d produced one of his masterpieces, and it was starting to get to him. That telltale creeping at the back of his mind, the increased rate at which these fucking _sheep_ got on his nerves…he wasn’t “escalating”, as the procedural crime dramas would call it, he was very careful about that, but he was becoming more aware of the time between his projects. It was still too early to act on the impulses, of course. He couldn’t break his timeline. Not now. It was all too practiced. He’d built up such a perfect cover; he couldn’t afford to blow it by being hasty. Tonight would be tedious, mundane, basic. Tonight he’d eat dinner alone, watch TV alone, rub out a quick one, alone in the shower, and go to bed alone.

“Excuse me,” a voice at the bar ripped him out of his sad planning.   “You’re out of cream.” Castiel looked up and his eyes fell on a stunningly beautiful man in an exquisitely tailored suit. It looked like it had cost at least as much as _Gregory’s_ suit, but the black wool clung to his frame in a devastatingly suggestive manner, hinting at everything and showing nothing, and suddenly Castiel’s inner monologue was so much less about blood and so much more about the supple skin hidden under that suit, the way he’d look as he fell apart under Castiel’s attentions, the way he’d scream Castiel’s name at the height of it all. It actually wasn’t so much different from his usual daydreams; it’s just that the object of his attention was screaming for different reasons now. Castiel shook himself back to reality and grabbed a freshly chilled carafe out of the fridge and handed it to the man, a small shiver running up his spine as their hands brushed for the briefest fraction of a second.

“You need anything else?” Castiel asked, like he was normal, like he wasn’t picturing this man naked in his bed. His attention was on the green eyed man, in his immaculate suit, but he made a reasonable show of turning his focus back to the work at hand.

“Well since you asked, I could use your number.” Castiel froze. The man smiled at Castiel, broad and charming, and Castiel got the impression that this man was used to using that smile to get whatever he wanted. He could see why it would be effective.

“Hmm, I don’t know. What do you plan on doing with it?” Castiel reached for the basket of cardboard sleeves without breaking eye contact with the sharp dressed man, pulled a marker out of the pocket of his khakis and scrawled his number across the company logo, but he didn’t hand it over.

“I thought I might send you _highly_ inappropriate text messages at all hours of the night, and if that went over ok, I was thinking of inviting you over for a drink or five.” That charming smile didn’t waver for a second, but his eyes were hungry. Castiel held out the sleeve with a smile of his own, casting his eyes downwards in a show of false modesty, hoping the blush on his cheeks would be perceived as shyness rather than the flush of lust and desire.

“Is that a promise?” Castiel batted his eyelashes. The other man didn’t give any indication of whether he’d been drawn in by the ruse. His expression didn’t change, not one tiny shift. He eyed Castiel with the same intensity he’d had on his face through the entire brief exchange.

“Well, thanks for this.” He gestured with the sleeve bearing Castiel’s cell phone number, before tucking it in to the pocket of his coat. He took a careful sip of his steaming coffee before turning on the heel of his very nice shoes, and striding out the door. Castiel couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t used any of the cream.

 

Dean Winchester took his coffee black. Always had. If it was worth drinking, it was worth enjoying, without adulterations, without sweetener and without cream. If it wasn’t good enough to drink like that, it just plain wasn’t good enough to drink. But putting his personal preferences aside was easiest way he could think of to justify a conversation with the pretty one behind the bar. It wasn’t Dean’s usual coffee shop. The one he frequented was closed for renovations. He’d begrudged it, hating the forced change in routine, dreading the pretension of the chain shop, but as soon as he’d caught sight of the tousled hair and sparkling eyes of the barista, he’d felt a surge of gratitude at what fate had handed him. It had been a risk, for sure. Dean had no idea if the guy played for his team, but hey, hitting on a stranger was always a risk. Those eyes were worth taking a chance.

Dean slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, ran a thumb along the edge of the piece of corrugated cardboard bearing his prize. He’d talked a big game, and the blush that had graced the cheeks of the delicious barista had been a welcome reward. There had been something in his eyes, though. Something hungry. Dean wanted to know more about that.

For the time being though, he had other priorities. Dean flashed his trademark smile at the temp receptionist at the front desk as he sauntered back in to his office. His regular girl was out with the flu or something. She’d left a voicemail but he only half listened. The girl worked hard enough; if she needed a day off, she could have a day off. He didn’t particularly care about the reason. The rest of the building would be empty before too long. It was nearly five, on the Friday before Labour Day weekend. No one would be here a second longer than necessary. Soon as that minute hand marked the hour, it would be a ghost town in the office, and then he’d have some peace and quiet.

Dean stood in his office with the door closed, hands on the window sill, staring out over the city below. He wasn’t certain how long the silence lasted before he moved, but it was calming. Dean was good at his job. Excellent even. He was talented, insightful, respected, and driven. It was a fantastic fit. There were definitely benefits. The penthouse apartment on the upper west side, the immaculately restored classic muscle car, top shelf liquor, all lovely trappings. Truthfully though, those were just superficial details. What he really loved, the thing that made all the long hours worthwhile, was the power.

All things considered, the job wasn’t difficult. He spent a lot of time convincing people with money to give his company that money. He followed up the convincing with schmoozing, and parties, and lunch meetings. Most of it was face time. The thing that made him good at it was the thing that made the social aspects of life come so easily for him. Dean had undeniable charisma. His estranged brother had once joked that he could charm his way into Fort Knox with nothing but a wry smile and a wink. Dean supposed it was probably true. He was also cocky enough to believe that wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

Charm. That was Dean’s power. Charm and the stones to use it. Power like this, his position within the company, that didn’t usually come at such a young age, but if you were brash enough to take it…

Dean slipped his cell phone out of his pocket. The sleek black device flashed the time, just minutes past five. There was more work to be done, before he could leave for the day. Sometimes being powerful, being in charge meant doing things you didn’t want to. He sank into the cushy leather chair behind his ornate desk, opened up his laptop, and got back to work. If he buckled down and finished the project, he might still have some fun tonight.

 

Castiel walked home alone after his shift, true to his earlier prediction. He stopped for takeout at a little Thai place a few blocks from his house and took home far too much food for one person. It had become a Friday night routine of his, lately. Pad Thai and spring rolls and satay and too much beer and solitude. He welcomed the quiet after spending all day around strangers, pretending to be nice, faking connections. It was such a relief to come home, kick off his shoes, and drop the showmanship.

Absently, over his third beer and second helping of noodles, Castiel let his thoughts drift to the green eyed stranger in the well cut suit. How long had it been since someone had showered him with that kind of attention? Castiel was usually the aggressor, pursuing whoever he found attractive at the time. Not that he went in for relationships. Not that he thought _this_ was going to be a relationship. What made him think about relationships? Castiel hadn’t been in one in years. Not since the idealism of his early twenties had he been able to convince himself that it was worth taking the risk with another person inside his bubble. There had been flings; short term, passionate affairs predicated on a mutual desire for sex, but they’d been devoid of any kind of real emotion, and someone always got bored. Usually it was Cas. If anything, that’s where this was headed. Still, the green eyed stranger would be a welcome distraction. There was at least another two weeks to wait before he considered it safe to start work on another masterpiece. A little harmless flirtation, a few drinks, and a dirty, rough, short term affair would be just the thing to pass the time. If he even called.

Castiel cursed himself silently for not asking for the man’s number in return, or at least his name. He remembered belatedly that he hadn’t written his own name down either. But then, green eyes hadn’t exactly asked for that. He shrugged, though there was no one around to see the dismissive gesture, and finished his noodles. As he reached for his beer, pondering whether to put on a movie, his cell phone jangled out the chorus to AC/DC’s Back in Black. Castiel glanced at the screen briefly, just long enough to note that it was an unknown caller, and tapped the screen to answer.

“Hello?” His voice was steady, calm.

“Hey. It’s Dean, from the coffee shop earlier,” the voice on the other end said, as if he expected Castiel to be receiving multiple phone calls from strange men, and felt the need to clarify where he’d been picked up.

“Dean.” He said the name slowly, trying out the feel of it in his mouth, letting his lips learn the shapes. “I’m trying to decide if you look like a Dean.”

“And the verdict?” There was mirth in his voice, amusement. Castiel imagined a wry smile on his lips, the five o’clock shadow that was present earlier in the day darker on his chin now that it was nearly midnight. “Do I look like a Dean?”

“I’m not sure yet. I only got to look at you briefly.” Castiel felt his own smile form. There was something predatory in the practice of flirting, and he always enjoyed it.

“Well do I look like a good time, at least?”

“That depends. Are we talking ‘day trip to the zoo’ good time? Or ‘bent over a table, screaming in ecstasy” good time? Those are very different things.”

“The latter, definitely the latter.” Dean’s voice was raspy as he answered. Castiel smirked to himself. He did enjoy being the aggressor.

“Then yes, you do look like a good time.” Castiel finished his beer in one long swallow, setting the bottle back on the table and reclining against the couch.

“Well that’s a relief. I’d be hesitant to invite you over for a drink if you didn’t think I looked like a good time.” Dean laughed a little, mirth tinged with the low rasp of lust.

“Oh we’re jumping right to that, are we? I believe I was promised a trial period of inappropriate text messages before we discussed meeting for drinks. Did you use false pretences to get my number, Dean?” The man on the other end of the line sucked in an audible breath at that last jab.

“Hmm well I thought about just sending you a text, but I wanted to hear that voice of yours. You could read the phone book to me in that low growl and I’d still find it hot.” Castiel laughed at that, an honest, throaty laugh. He got up from the couch and strolled to the kitchen to grab a fourth beer. “But I tell you what. Meet me for drinks tomorrow night at say, 8, and I’ll make sure you get those suggestive text messages and then some.”

“That already sounds like a pretty good deal. What more could you possibly throw in to sweeten the bargain?” Castiel was intrigued.

“Well, if you could see your way clear to telling me your name, I might have some incredibly risqué photos on my phone I could be persuaded to send your way.”

“Castiel,” he replied, no hesitation. A better man might have played hard to get on that one, but Castiel found that he didn’t have it in him to hide his enthusiasm.

“OK Castiel, it’s a date.” Less than a minute after the call ended, Castiel’s phone jingled with a text message. He tapped the icon and was slightly disappointed to discover it was just an address. A quick search showed it to be the location of a cocktail lounge in a neighbourhood that was well outside Castiel’s tax bracket. He set his phone down on the coffee table and turned his attention to his beer, and tried to tell himself he wasn’t just waiting by the phone like a lovestruck teenager. He hoped Dean wouldn’t keep him waiting too long.

 

Dean scrolled through the carefully encrypted folder of nudie photos on his phone, not entirely certain which of the risqué selfies the object of his lust would find most enticing. He was just playing the game now, a little harmless flirtation; a little tease to make sure Castiel’s interest was piqued. He didn’t really expect the picture to accomplish anything other than keep the game of cat and mouse going. He settled on something rather tame, by comparison to some of the other pictures on his phone. It wouldn’t do to give away too much right off the bat. The photo stopped just above his hipbones, but suggested he was nude below that (he had been, when he’d taken it), and he was comfortable enough with his own ego to admit he looked damn fine. Dean sent the picture with no message, watching the screen to make sure it sent properly before sliding the phone back in to his pocket.

He wiped hand against his forehead, scrubbing at the blood that struggled to dry there. He’d need a shower before he let sleep claim him, that was undeniable. Dean turned his attention back to the man sprawled at his feet. He couldn’t help thinking of him as a man, even now that the spark of life was gone and it was technically just a corpse on a tarp. That intangible something, the presence that gave life to flesh, the soul, if you wanted to use that term, had fled this body at least an hour ago. Long before Dean had dialled Castiel’s number.

“Well, Gregory,” Dean said to the corpse, reminding himself it wasn’t a he anymore, it was an it. There wasn’t a person in there any longer. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” As Dean busied himself with the cleanup and disposal of his little Friday night project, he let his mind wander a little. How serendipitous, that the target he’d been tracking this week had shown up in to Castiel’s coffee shop. He knew where Gregory lived, but not where he worked, and what could have turned in to a long, drawn out pursuit had transformed into a very immediate reward. The body on the tarp in front of him, Gregory, used to belong to a rather disgusting person, all things considered. He lived an unremarkable life by day, but the man had been prone to some unfortunate sexual appetites. Dean considered himself somewhat of a dark hero. His targets were always the least desirable of society. Child molesters like Gregory. Rapists. Those who preyed on the weak, those unable to defend himself. He was a little like Batman, though he’d never let anyone hear him make the comparison. Except that Batman had this stodgy rule against killing, and Dean embraced the power of the knife. Sometimes, it was a blissfully effective means to an end. Dean had done a service to the community by slitting Gregory’s throat, though he was entirely certain the majority of them wouldn’t see it that way, if presented with the evidence. It was that evidence that Dean sought to bleach away now, wiping every memory of himself and Gregory from the rough concrete of the room. This building was abandoned, and it would probably be a long time before anyone had any reason to come here again, but it wouldn’t do to get sloppy.

When he was satisfied that he’d cleared every trace of his presence from the room, he loaded the limp body of Gregory in to the waiting trunk of his car. Dean would rather have just gone home at this point, see if that delicious barista had replied to his messages, mix a drink, and relax, now that his work was done, but he couldn’t just leave Gregory hanging around. He drove to the river and dragged the bag containing Gregory’s corpse up to the banks. The current was swift and strong, and the black bag was out of sight before long. Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the message that lit up his screen.

 

_That’s what you call risqué? Dean, I think I have a thing or two to teach you._

Dean allowed himself a little laugh. Yes, the barista was intrigued. This was going to be a good weekend. Dean had finally taken out the target he’d been after all week and he had the attentions of a stunning man, at least for the time being. He didn’t allow himself the fantasy that this would last beyond a fling. His dual life didn’t leave much room for long term relationships, and he had no illusions about his own ability to mimic stability long enough to try at one. But casual sex, short term affairs full of fucking and not much else, now those, he was qualified for. Especially if it was that gorgeous blue eyed barista he was fucking. Dean tapped out a reply.

 

_That’s just the appetizer. Can’t go giving away too much too soon. What if you lose interest?_

Dean pulled up another picture, this one of his naked ass, and sent it over the airwaves to Cas. He got into his car and drove home, building a visual list in his head of all the things he was going to do when he finally got to lay hands on Castiel.

 

Dean was already waiting outside the Crossroads Lounge when Castiel stepped out of a cab at ten to eight the next night. The suit he wore was just as expertly tailored as the one he’d been wearing at the coffee shop the day before, but this time it was a deep grey with tiny pinstripes. He wore a matching waistcoat, and the green and bronze tie, worn in a Windsor knot, brought out the exquisite colour of his eyes. Castiel suddenly felt underdressed in his own off-the-rack suit. It was clean, at least, and it fit him well, though the tailoring wasn’t quite as expert. Dean wore the suit like he was born to it, like a second skin, whereas Cas felt like he was wearing a costume.

“You clean up nice,” he heard Dean saying, and a blush crept up on to his cheeks, despite Cas’s desire to retain the upper hand. So instead of answering, instead of offering schoolgirlish gratitude at the flattery, he just raised an eyebrow and smirked at the other man. “What? Last time I saw you, you were in dirty khakis and you had a little bit of coffee grinds on your forehead.”

“I wasn’t working today.” He said with a shrug.

“So you’re not going to smell like coffee?” Dean sounded ever so slightly dejected, but that trademark grin didn’t slip for a second.

“No, but if you prefer the other, I can go home and change.”

“I don’t much care what you’re wearing, Castiel. Khakis or a suit, I imagine they’ll all end up on my bedroom floor before too long.” Dean gestured towards the door of the lounge, but he didn’t turn away.

“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think? How do you know I’m going to put out on the first date? Maybe I plan to make you wait.” He didn’t, but there was no need to tell Dean that.

“Because I can see it all over your face. If I told you I wanted to skip the drinks and go right back to my place, I’m betting you wouldn’t balk at the suggestion. In fact, I’m betting you’re already wishing I would.” He cocked his head to the side in an unspoken question, an ‘I dare you to deny it’ sort of look. When Cas didn’t refute the claim, Dean turned and opened the door to the dimly lit bar.

“Shall we?” Castiel swept his eyes over the club as they entered, taking in his surroundings, both out of appreciation for the extravagant lustre of the place and out of habit. Was there anyone here he knew? Was there anyone here who looked like they recognized him? Where were the exits? It was fortunate that Dean had chosen a bar he’d never even heard of, let alone been to. Anonymity was his first shield, the first level of defence against a society that would bleed him dry if they knew about his art. Castiel let himself be directed to a booth in the back of the club, furthest from the door, and somewhat secluded from the rest of the patronage. It wasn’t quite a private room, but the way it was set in to the wall, the open floor space between this booth and the other tables, gave a sense of exclusivity.

“Your usual, Mr. Winchester?” The waitress asked. Castiel logged away the little bit of data, another fact about his somewhat mysterious companion. He’d have to look Dean Winchester up later. Information was always useful in tipping the balance of power. The waitress’s posture, and her outfit, was obviously designed to pull the eyes of her patrons to her chest. She seemed genuinely annoyed that neither Castiel nor Dean paid her any attention.

"Do you drink wine?” Castiel nodded, much more interested in the man across the table from him than the drink menu in his hands. Dean ordered a bottle without glancing at the wine list. The waitress slunk away from the table, not bothering to veil her displeasure at being ignored by the pair of them.

“You bring a lot of dates here?” Castiel jabbed, when the waitress walked away.

“I entertain clients from time to time. Fools and their money are more easily parted when you show them how far your own money and influence extends. I also happen to like it here. And it has the added appeal of being close to my home, so when I decide I’m tired of watching you squirm, I won’t have to wait long to get my hands on you.” Dean’s eyes were locked on Castiel’s, his stare predatory, and the smile on his lips left no doubt that he planned to follow through on every word.

“I get the feeling the idea of me saying ‘no’ hasn’t even crossed your mind. You’re used to getting exactly what you want, aren’t you, Dean?” Castiel kept his shoulders solid, his back straight, using every inch of his height to his advantage. He didn’t feel like the aggressor anymore, but that didn’t mean he had to let Dean have all the power.

“If you were going to say no, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have answered my call last night. You probably wouldn’t have given me your number in the first place. You’re smarter than that, and you’re also not as good at hiding things as you might think. I read people, Castiel. It’s what I do. You’re an open book.” Castiel highly doubted that, or they’d be having this conversation with an officer of the law, in handcuffs, but he took the bait anyway.

“And what are you reading, if I’m so transparent?” The waitress arrived with the bottle of wine, a dark red bottle, labelled in French. She uncorked it and poured a tiny portion in to Dean’s glass, waiting for him to approve before proceeding. He sipped the vintage carefully, and Castiel watched his full lips as they pursed on the edge of the glass, watched the rise of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Dean had shaved since yesterday, he noticed for the first time. The stubble of the previous evening was gone, leaving Dean’s sharp jaw smooth and un-obscured. Dean nodded his assent to the waitress, the wine meeting his expectations and she filled both of their glasses before setting the bottle down and walking away from the table, with somewhat less petulance than before.

“I didn’t say transparent. You’re an open book to me, because I know what I’m looking for. You probably trick everyone else just fine.” Castiel watched Dean take a sip of his wine before he continued. “You hate your job. You hate almost everything about it. Probably, your co-workers are the only redeeming factor. I saw the way you interacted with that little red-head. You care about her, not like a boss, but like a friend.” Castiel hadn’t even realized Dean had been in the shop that long. He’d been goofing around with Charlie probably ten or fifteen minutes before Dean had asked for his number. “You think you are destined for something bigger, but the job’s an anchor, and you don’t know how to get out from under it. You hate the customers. That douchebag you were dealing with right before we spoke yesterday? You’d wring his neck if you got half a chance. You do a damn good job of pretending you’re not thinking it, but you would.”   Castiel took a long drink of his own wine, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Dean was skirting dangerously close to his own carefully guarded truth.

“You don’t date,” Dean continued. “Not really. That would involve spending too much time with people. With a person. But the way you looked at me, you weren’t undressing me with your eyes, you were _unmaking me_ with your eyes. I’ve got a pretty good hunch that you are one kinky bastard. Did I hit the nail on the head?”

“I thought you said I wasn’t transparent? We’ve had one, maybe one and a half conversations, and you feel confident you know my kinks?”

“I told you, I read people. You’re just more interesting than most of the people I have to get a read on.” Dean let a small smile quirk the corner of his mouth, and Castiel thought it was positively scandalous, the way it changed his face. The disarming smile he’d shown earlier, it was warm and inviting and approachable. This smirk was predatory and dangerous and Castiel could not stop himself from imagining what it would be like to fall apart under Dean’s hands, with those eyes and that smirk looking back at him. The lounge was suddenly far too warm.

“Since you seem to know so much about me, Mister Winchester, maybe you should tell me something about yourself? I’m at a significant disadvantage. All I know about you is that you take your coffee black and you have impeccable taste in suits. And wine.” Castiel gestured with his glass before taking another drink. Dean’s glass was already empty.

“And men. I have impeccable taste in men.” Dean picked up the bottle off the table, refilling his own glass, and pouring more in to Castiel’s.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, or are you evading the question?”

“Do I _need_ to get you drunk? I was kinda hoping you’d remember whatever we do, in the morning. Makes it more likely you’ll come back for more.”

“You’re definitely evading the question. Ok, have it your way. Keep me in the dark.” Castiel swirled the wine in his glass. He took a drink, pulled his eyes away from Dean’s mouth, tried to collect himself. Castiel was not in control of this interaction. Any other time, that would likely have ruined the fun. For Cas, a large part of the pleasure of a sexual encounter came from directing the action. He liked exerting power over his partners, and it gave him a thrill when they submitted. He’d been butting up against Dean’s dominance, both consciously and subconsciously, since they’d arrived, but he only now realized that he was not gaining any ground. Dean wasn’t seeking dominance because he craved it, he was owning the role because it was who he was. Dean didn’t play at power, he didn’t need to take the upper hand, because it was already his. Cas finished his glass of wine and noticed that Dean was staring at him, and for the first time it appeared that he wasn’t reading everything on Castiel’s mind like the open book Dean claimed him to be.

“I think it’s time we got out of here, don’t you?” Dean’s voice was low and quiet, like he was telling Cas a secret. Without waiting for an answer, Dean caught the waitress’s attention from across the room, waiving her over. He handed her a credit card before turning his attention back to Castiel.

 

Dean’s condo, it turned out, was two blocks away, in a spectacular high rise building. The doorman’s face was unreadable as he let them in, greeting Dean with familiarity and pointedly not looking at Castiel at all. The glass walls of the elevator showed Castiel a stunning view of the city’s darkened skyline as they rose up to one of the higher floors. Dean opened the door to his home with an electronic fob rather than a key, letting it swing shut behind them. The door latched softly, and it was the only sound in the room. Dean’s condo was immaculate, every surface clean and free of dust or clutter, and yet somehow it felt lived-in and homey. Castiel couldn’t tell if the art and the furniture it held were personal touches, betraying hints at Dean’s personality, or a calculated, sculpted image he wished to show to people he let in to his home. He hadn’t shown Cas anything about himself to serve as a basis for comparison.

“Can I take your coat?” Dean asked, the consummate gentleman, and he hung it in a mirrored closet in the entryway with quick, deft hands. The coat, and Dean’s own, were settled on their hangers for just the briefest of seconds, the space of a breath, before Castiel found himself pushed up against the opposite wall, Dean’s mouth crashing against his lips, Dean’s tongue invading his mouth. Castiel definitely did not have the upper hand. Lust overruled his desire to take control, and he let Dean kiss him, harsh and demanding, let Dean’s hands grasp his arms tight, pinning him to the wall and leaving no room for movement. He let Dean grind his body against Cas, press a knee between his thighs and rut against the growing bulge in his pants. He didn’t resist when Dean’s hands released his arms and reached for his tie, working loose the crooked four-in-hand knot and tossing the strip of fabric to the ground. Dean’s hands found the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, opening them one by one. Castiel hissed as Dean’s smooth hands brushed against his chest, each little touch driving him wild with wanting. Dean hummed with amusement, drawing back to look at Castiel with lust-blown eyes, a delicious flush across his freckled cheeks.

Dean didn’t speak, just took Castiel by the hand, pulling him out of the entry and down the hall. They passed three closed doors before they came to the bedroom. He swung Castiel around, his back to the bed, and slid the open shirt form his shoulders, then pushed him backwards. Castiel fell to the bed as gracefully as he could manage, propping himself up on his elbows to watch as Dean slipped the knot out of his own tie, discarding it and his shirt in a heap on the floor with Cas’s.

The lights in the bedroom were low, casting shadows across the room, but Castiel could still clearly see the firm muscles in Dean’s chest, the tight cords of his biceps flexing as he fiddled with the buckle on his belt. It was impossible to miss the swell in Dean’s briefs as he dropped his pants to the floor, kicking off his socks with a toe. Castiel drank in the image of him, this stranger before him, and he wanted him, all of him, every inch. Castiel wanted to explore the terrain of his body with his hands and his mouth and learn all of him by touch. He’d let Dean take the lead up until now, because he hadn’t left any room for resistance, but Cas meant to take it back.

He moved to take off his own pants, but he only got the belt un-buckled before Dean was perched over him on the bed, his hands pushing Castiel’s away, working the zipper down with torturous slow speed. He sat back on his knees and eased the garment over Cas’s hips. Dean let his hands brush against Cas’s skin gently, almost unintentionally, as he pulled the pants, and Cas’s boxer-briefs too, down his thighs and discarded them carelessly off the edge of the bed. Cas lay fully exposed, head resting on the mountain of pillows, the sheets cool beneath his naked skin, waiting for an opening.

Dean placed a hand on either side of Castiel’s shoulders, leaning his head in just so, and the second he was close enough, Castiel reached up and drew him in to a kiss, more tender than before but still rough, still greedy and passionate. It heated his blood just to be near this man; touching him lit Castiel on fire. He felt Dean give in to the kiss, opening his mouth and letting Cas explore with his tongue. He took Dean’s lower lip in between his teeth, biting down enough to elicit a groan from the other man, but just short of drawing blood. When he was certain Dean was distracted, he shifted his weight, grabbing the other man’s shoulders, and rolled him over, switching their positions and perching triumphantly over Dean’s hips.

He shifted his hips, sliding a knee between Dean’s thighs, and pressed himself against the startled man reclining before him. Dean pulled him in to a slower, more sensual kiss, as Cas rocked his hips. He let his thigh grind against Dean’s cock, still trapped in his shorts, and Cas’s own erection pressed between them with each deliciously calculated movement. Dean’s hands ghosted up Castiel’s ribs, following the lines of his muscles, but when Castiel felt Dean grab his shoulders, he feared a reversal of roles again, and took action.

He gripped Dean’s wrists roughly, one at a time, and drew them off his own biceps and pressed them down to the bed. Dean was strong enough, he could have wrested free if he chose to, but Castiel chose to restrain him, and Dean chose to let him. That was a thrill in and of itself. As much as Dean was powerful, physically and otherwise, he willingly gave himself to Castiel, though he had no idea what Cas planned to do with that power.

Castiel broke away from Dean’s mouth, pressing his lips instead to Dean’s jaw line, his throat, his collarbone. He kissed everywhere he could reach without freeing the other man’s hands.

“I’m usually the one in control here,” Dean murmured, his voice wrecked, not bothering to even try to mask the desire that boiled his blood. Castiel laughed against his skin, lips brushing gently, teasingly, as he moved.

“So am I.”

“This could get interesting.” Dean mused.

“It isn’t interesting already?” Castiel teased, then dragged the tip of his tongue agonizingly slowly up Dean’s throat. He nipped at the tender skin just below his ear. “I must try harder.” He released one of Dean’s hands, letting his palm slide down the arm to Dean’s shoulder, then dragged his fingertips down, and down, and down, until he brushed at the waistband of the only garment left between the two of them. Dean sucked in a breath as Castiel’s fingertips pushed past the elastic.   Dean rolled his hips up, pushing his dick into Castiel’s searching hand, and he groaned as Cas wrapped his deft fingers around him, stroking gently and teasingly. Castiel’s mouth found Dean’s again, and he set a languid rhythm with lips and fingers, not hurried or needy, just the pleasure of contact, just sensation and touch.

Dean’s free hand snaked around Castiel’s back, pulling him close, and he was so lost in the kiss and the feel of Dean’s cock in his hand, he failed to notice until it was too late. Dean wrenched his other arm free, upsetting Castiel’s balance, and he couldn’t stop himself from being rolled back to the bed. Dean pulled away, discarding his shorts and letting his hard cock spring free, and Castiel was taken aback once again by just how gorgeous he was, his naked flesh shadowed in the lamp light. Dean smiled that predatory smile again, his hungry eyes all over Cas’s own naked form, for just a second too long before walking over to a chest of drawers. He pulled out lube and a condom, which Castiel had expected, and two black silk scarves, which he had not.

“Like I said, I’m usually the one in control. You don’t mind if I tie you up, do you? I’d love to watch you squirm.” Dean’s voice was calm, controlled, like he was discussing the weather, not asking permission to bind Cas to the bed. Cas hesitated for a moment. It’s not that he had a problem with bottoming. It had been a while since he’d let anyone have that part of him, but he had gone down that road before. No, it was the thought of submitting that played with his mind. It was a question, Dean had asked, but something in Castiel’s mind told him it was a command, and for a split second, the idea of giving up control instead of fighting for it was fucking _thrilling_. That was all it took, that tiny iota of doubt, that brief thought that he might want this, and he heard himself breathing “Yes,” felt himself nodding, and then Dean was on him.

Dean was gentle as he straddled Castiel, hands guiding each of his arms up to the headboard. He tied Cas’s hands to the posts, his arms spread wide, but not quite stretching his shoulders. He tugged at the knots experimentally. Castiel thought he could probably pull his hands free, if he wanted to, but strangely enough he found he had no desire to do so. Dean studied his handiwork, allowing his eyes to roam over the delicious sight of Castiel, spread out before him, bound and restrained and on display. He could do anything he wanted, Castiel found himself thinking. He could do anything at all, and Castiel couldn’t stop him. His dick twitched at that though, his arousal heightened by the wholly unfamiliar feeling of helplessness.

Satisfied that Castiel was tied securely, Dean dove in to him, all the tenderness of earlier kisses replaced with greed and reckless abandon. Castiel tugged against his bonds, trying to give as good as he got, but there wasn’t much he could do. Dean controlled the pace and the pressure. He pulled away from Castiel’s lips to mouth at his throat. Dean’s tongue darted out to drag along Cas’s collarbone as he moved lower, leaving a trail of hot kisses in his wake. Castiel moaned, his entire body hot and flushed with desire, as Dean took a nipple between his teeth and flicked it with his tongue. And then he was kissing lower, across the flat of his abdomen, the protrusion of his hip bones, and so, so close to Cas’s throbbing cock.

Dean didn’t go right for it though. He let his hands and lips forge a path right past, kissing across Cas’s hips and lower. He nudged Cas’s legs apart, his mouth warm and wet on the tender skin of is inner thighs. It was almost more than Castiel could bear. Dean’s mouth was so close, he could feel hot breath at the base of his cock, and he couldn’t help but think of that mouth wrapped around him, coaxing filthy moans from his lips. He groaned in anticipation. If only his hands were free, Cas would love to tangle his fingers in Dean’s honey coloured hair, guide him and encourage him. He struggled against his bonds. Dean glanced up at him, shaking his head in admonition.

“No Cas. Mine. You’re not going anywhere,” Dean assured him, before dragging the flat of his tongue up the underside of Cas’s cock, eliciting a heady groan from Cas. “Unless you _want_ to leave?   I can certainly untie you if you’re not having fun anymore.” He took Cas in his mouth as he finished speaking, his full pink lips sliding as far down the shaft as possible, and all resistance vanished.

“No!” Cas managed to choke out. “No, I don’t want to leave. This is good. Oh fuck is this good…” Dean swirled his tongue as he began to move up and down, his lips and his hands working in unison to drive Castiel entirely mad. His hips jerked, unbidden, forcing his length upwards into Dean’s mouth. He expected Dean to pull back, but he didn’t. He adjusted his rhythm to allow for the motion of Cas’s hips, sliding his lips all the way up to the tip, before sinking down so low his nose brushed the tuft of soft, dark hair at the base of Cas’s cock. Dean worked in slow, teasing strokes, then faster, twisting his wrist as his hand chased his mouth up and down Cas’s spit-slick length.

“Dean…” he growled as he felt himself nearing the edge, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Dean pulled away.

“Not yet,” his voice was a command. Dean moved back up the bed, his lips back on Cas’s mouth. He tasted the familiar tang of sweat and something else on Dean’s lips. The kiss was gentle, almost chaste. Cas let himself be wooed by it, nuzzling in to Dean as he peppered Cas’s face with little kisses, on his mouth, his face, his neck. Dean buried his face in Cas’s throat, sucking a purple mark into the crook of his shoulder. “I’m not done with you yet,” Dean murmured. “Stay with me.” Cas sighed, unable to engage, completely at Dean’s mercy, and totally enjoying every second of it.

Dean reached out and grabbed the lube from the nightstand. He moved back down Castiel’s body, quicker this go around. He didn’t waste time with teasing now. Just a fast trail of lips and tongue down Cas’s middle as he repositioned himself between Cas’s thighs.

“Are you ready?” Dean asked, but all Castiel could manage in response was a nod. Dean pushed Cas’s knees up, exposing everything, and pressed a finger coated with cold lube up against the tight ring of muscle there. Cas gasped, tensing at the unexpected chill. Dean worked his finger in slow, tantalizing circles, coaxing beautiful noises to fall from Castiel’s lips. He moved with incredible patience, teasing Castiel as long as he dared before sliding his index finger in, just up the first knuckle. Cas revelled in the attention, squirming with pleasure as Dean worked him open, one finger at a time. By the time Dean had three fingers in him, Cas was bucking against his hand, thrusting back onto Dean’s fingers, crying out as he did so. Cas’s threw his head back in ecstasy, but if he’d bothered to open his eyes and look, he’d see the thrill on Dean’s face. Dean stroked his own cock lightly as he knelt between Cas’s parted knees, watching the other man come undone as he writhed on the mattress. “I told you I’d make you squirm,” Dean breathed, as he withdrew his fingers and rolled the condom down over his length.

Cas craned his neck to watch as Dean fitted himself to Cas’s entrance. He lined up, just so, pressing himself in to the puckered hole, and Cas whined as he entered, agonizingly slow, inch by tantalizing inch, until his he was buried deep. He loved the burn, the pain mixed with pleasure. It had been far too long since he’d felt full up like this. Dean lifted one of Cas’s legs, perching the ankle on his own shoulder as he began to move. Cas expected a slow, torturous build, but he was so, so wrong. Dean pulled back, sliding almost all the way up as he gripped Cas’s hip, and slammed home.

He was merciless, rough, pounding his hips into Castiel’s with each brutal thrust. Cas’s free leg wrapped around Dean’s hips, drawing him closer, and rocked his hips upward with each thrust. He wanted to reach out and touch Dean, run his hands over his body, but this would have to do. He met Dean’s thrusts with as much of his own force as he could muster, drawing him deep. Heat coursed though his veins, burning him out, lighting a fire in his belly. His orgasm loomed, just out of reach, and Cas let fly a string of expletives, filthy demands that came out something akin to begging. Dean laughed, but he obeyed.

One of Dean’s hands gripped Cas’s hip tight enough that it would probably leave finger-shaped bruises, but the other was free and he used it to grasp Cas’s neglected cock. His touch was rough as he tugged at Cas, working in time with his thrusts. Cas rocked his hips, the only motion available to him. He pushed himself back against Dean’s cock as he slammed their hips together, ground himself upwards to chase Dean’s hand as he stroked at his throbbing cock. Castiel lost himself in the motion of it, the overwhelming sensation, and he screamed as Dean drove him mad with lust. His orgasm was white-hot, blinding Cas to reason, blurring his vision and making his head swim, and Dean followed him over the edge, spilling into him as Cas’s muscles tensed and fluttered. When they were both spent, weak and sated, Dean crawled up the bed and untied Castiel’s hands wordlessly, dropping the scarves on the nightstand, then padded barefoot to the bathroom, returning with a cool, damp towel. He was gentle, inexplicably caring as he wiped Cas clean, and the stark contrast to the near violent nature of their encounter made Cas more than a little uncomfortable.

Usually, this was the point in time where Castiel would leave. He should bet getting out of bed right now, finding his clothes, and calling a cab. Never mind the fact that all he wanted to do was pass out, fall in to the glorious deep sleep that only ever followed a truly exquisite fucking, no, he should leave. Castiel had no intention of getting emotionally attached, although he wouldn’t protest a few more meetings with Dean before they went their separate ways. You don’t spend the night with people you don’t want to see in the daylight. But when Dean returned from discarding the towel in a hamper somewhere across the room, he climbed in to bed beside Castiel and laid hands on him so tenderly, he found he didn’t want to leave anymore. Dean’s fingers were gentle, soft, as he caressed the bruises forming on Castiel’s hips, his lips soft as he laid a ghost of a kiss on the mark he’d sucked into Cas’s neck.

“You’re so beautiful when you let go, Cas,” Dean murmured against his throat. He sounded sleepy. Castiel resigned himself, he’d stay this time. If there was a next time, though, he’d draw a hard line. There was no room in his life for emotional attachments.

 

Castiel woke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling windows in Dean’s bedroom. Alone. He rolled over and tugged on last night’s clothes, his shirt wrinkled, and left the bedroom. Dean wasn’t in the bright living room, or the kitchen. There was, however, a single red rose in a vase that he was certain hadn’t been there the night before, a fresh pot of coffee steaming on the counter, and a note. He ignored the first two and opened the third.

 

_My apologies for leaving you alone here. I had some things to take care of at the office and I didn’t want to wake you. Last night was truly incredible. We should do it again sometime. Soon._

_-Dean_

Castiel tucked the note in to his pocket, turned the coffee maker off, and left.

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Dean willed his feet to pick an aimless path along the dimly lit sidewalk. He wanted so badly to rush. If he could, he’d run. He’d sprint. Dean wanted to blend in, though. He wanted to escape notice, and if anyone did notice, he wanted them to think nothing exceptional at all about him. He sauntered, even thought he felt anything but casual. If anything, he was elated. Castiel hadn’t called him since the night they’d spent together. Dean had almost picked up the phone himself, but he was worried about coming on too strong. If there was such a thing as coming on too strong after asking for the barista’s phone number, texting him naked photos, and then tying him to a bed within the course of 48 hours. He was disappointed, to say the least, and it had soured his mood for the entire week.

The house was dark when he approached. There were no lights in any of the windows to betray its occupant, but Dean had done his research. He knew exactly what to expect when he walked in. The front door would be unlocked. It always was. Dean had been here before, when he knew it would be unoccupied. He preferred to know the lay of a place before striking. He didn’t like surprises. The front door was too obvious though. Dean slunk around to the back, slipping in through the kitchen door as quiet as a mouse. It clicked shut almost inaudibly.

Upstairs, his eyes adjusting to the dark, Dean found the target he sought. He’d be sleeping by this time, and more than a little drunk. Dean was counting on it. He preferred his targets to know what was happening, usually, but this one was harder to get alone. It would have to be like this. He felt a pang of regret that he wouldn’t be able to watch the life drain out of the man’s eyes. That was his favourite part.

The sick fucker’s chest rose and fell rhythmically as Dean watched from the doorway. He snored like a bear. It was a wonder the entire neighbourhood couldn’t hear him. Dean ghosted alongside the bed, scooping up the spare pillow as he went. He pressed it firmly over his new friend’s face, frowning at how little he twitched. It really was more fun to do this with a knife. It’d be no less than this one deserved. Dean sneered as he thought about it. How could someone kill their own brother? And for money? Over a fucking inheritance?

The thrashing stopped, abruptly. Dean let the smile return to his face. He lit one of the man’s cigarettes, and dropped it on the bedspread. The thing was polyester, and it started to smoke and melt almost immediately. The entire building was in flames before Dean turned the corner and disappeared into the night.

 

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Two weeks later, Castiel hadn’t called Dean again, and Dean hadn’t called him either. Two weeks later, Castiel hadn’t forgotten about the amazing sex, the glorious feeling of letting himself fall apart under the other man’s hands, the freedom that came with letting go. Two weeks later, Castiel made another masterpiece.

He didn’t know the name of the man he was making art with. It didn’t matter. As he cut into the smooth, unblemished flesh, listened to the muffled screams caught behind the man’s gag, he lost himself in his work. Castiel chased the release that came with his artistic expression, and with each agonizing cut, he brought himself closer and closer to that thing he needed more than he needed breathing. But at the end of it, when the nameless man breathed his last breath, his limbs limp and his eyes blank, Castiel still felt empty. All the blood he’d spilled, the beauty of it, the truly exquisite piece of art laid out before him, and he could only appreciate it as an outsider. It didn’t feel like he’d expected. He didn’t feel the freedom that usually came with taking a life. Castiel was baffled, enraged. He threw his rage in to disposing of the body, his thoughts consumed with dissecting the night’s events as he dissected the failed project under his hands. Had he picked the wrong person to transform? Did he not take enough time? Nothing had felt…off about the process right up until he made that final cut, and the peace he sought had eluded him. Castiel vowed to go home and get himself very, very drunk, as soon as he was done disposing of his failure.

 

When his cell phone rang the next morning, he answered it without looking at the call display. He would rather have known who he was speaking to before putting the phone to his ear, but when he opened his eyes the light in the room was excruciating, so he groped blindly and answered.

“Hello,” he croaked, his voice wrecked and raspy from the immeasurable quantity of whiskey he’d consumed the night before. Castiel scrubbed a hand through his tousled hair and reclined on his pillow, already regretting being awake.

“Cas, it’s Dean. How are you? You sound like shit.”

“I’ve been better. What’s up?”

“I hadn’t heard from you in a few weeks. Little disappointed that you didn’t call.” Dean did sound honestly disappointed.

“To be fair, you didn’t call either.”  
            “Touché. I’m calling now. Rough night?”

“I feel like I drank a liquor store. What time is it?” Castiel hadn’t dared open his eyes to check.

“It’s three.” Dean’s chuckle sounded hollow, tinny through the phone.

“Fuck, seriously? I never sleep this late.” He opened a cautious eye and found that if he squinted, he could stand the light. He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Well you also don’t usually drink a whole liquor store, champ. At least, I assume you don’t. You must have one fuck of a hangover.”

“That’s an understatement.” Cas groaned. He was torn between a desire to eat the greasiest meal he could find, and a need to crawl to the bathroom and vomit up everything he’d ever consumed.

“I was going to suggest we meet for drinks later, but I have a feeling you’re not on good terms with booze right now? Perhaps a rain check.”

“Yeah I will definitely not be drinking tonight. Possibly not ever again. But if drinks were going to be a prelude to something else…”

“You sure you can handle me right now? You sound pretty close to death.”

“I’m certain I will survive. But I could use a distraction from my self inflicted misery.” Cas hung up and texted Dean his address, then put his minimal retained energy into dragging his sorry ass out of bed and down the hall to the shower. He had a feeling the whiskey was seeping out of every pore, and although he had no illusions about his ability to regain the upper hand with Dean today, he wanted to at least maintain some illusion of dignity. He brushed his teeth, then stepped in to the steamy shower and sighed as the hot water sluiced the sweat and whiskey and self loathing off his skin. He washed languidly, knowing he had at least an hour before Dean showed up. The longer he stood in the shower, passive and mentally absent, the more his body started to feel like his own again. After many long minutes, his fingers wrinkling and skin pink with the heat, he stepped out of the shower, carding his fingers through hair slicked to his scalp and dropping a spray of cooling droplets to the floor. He dried and dressed with perfunctory haste, opting for the nicest jeans he owned and a clean t-shirt. Dean would have to forgive the casual appearance. He was recovering from a hellish night. Comfort was his due. Drunk Castiel had at least left the living room mostly tidy, save an empty glass and a lonely bottle, so Cas made quick work of cleaning up, made the bed, and then curled up on the couch under a thick blanket to wait for his guest. His thoughts drifted back to last night, to the failed art project he had been trying to obfuscate from his memory with excessive drink. It was incredibly unsettling to think about. His mind was slow, but angry, toxic thoughts crept in. Why didn’t it work? Why did he still feel that creeping dread in the back of his mind? The work had been perfect. Each exacting cut, each tortured scream had been precise and perfect. He’d gotten everything he wanted, but it still wasn’t enough. It was like starving at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Castiel had denied himself nothing but his satisfaction stayed just out of reach. He wanted to hit something. Or stab something.

 

Castiel nearly dozed off in the short time span before Dean was to arrive. The couch was comfortable, but more importantly, his body was seething with the toxins produced as a result of his binge. All available resources seemed to be going in to combating that onslaught. He answered the door with heavy lidded eyes and a yawn. Dean wore denim as well, clean dark indigo that clung to his hips and sculpted to the shape of his ass. The plain black tee-shirt he wore under his plaid button up was well worn and looked soft. Castiel welcomed him in with as much grace as he could manage, but really, he was weary. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Dean brought food.

“My patented hang-over cure: Shower, Bacon Cheeseburger, Gatorade, and sex. Guaranteed to make you feel human again.” Dean grinned as he set out the contents of the bag, watching out the corner of his eye as Castiel sank into the couch, head in his hands. “And Aspirin.” Cas took the pills and the purple beverage with gratitude, but eyed the food warily.

“I’m not sure I’m the best company right now. Perhaps we should reschedule this for a day when I’m slightly less…dying.” Castiel grimaced as he picked up the messy, greasy burger and took a cautious bite. It was perhaps the best thing he’d ever tasted, and he realized only then how ravenously hungry he was. It _had_ been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d consumed anything other than alcohol.

“No, you’re fine. I’m going to sit right here until you finish that burger, and then I’m going to make you forget all about your brutal hangover. It’s a perfect system. The burger doesn’t work unless you follow it up with sex. Besides, you’re adorable when you’re all helpless like this.”

“I’m not helpless,” Cas pouted, taking another bite and savouring it. “I’m just…I drank an entire bottle of bourbon last night. It does things to a person.”

“Must have been a pretty bad day to make you go hard to the bottle like that, all by yourself. What happened?” Dean placed a hand on his thigh, the simple gesture comforting, and at the same time Cas felt like Dean was taking a measure of control again. He sighed.

“Shit just didn’t go according to plan, and I…you know what? I actually don’t want to talk about it.” Cas was being rude, and he knew it, but what the fuck was he supposed to say? _The murder I’ve been planning since before we met didn’t make me as happy as I wanted, and I am way too fucked in the head to analyze that so I drank myself into a stupor?_ Yeah, that would work real well.

“Yeah fine, no talking about our feelings. I get it.” Dean’s face was unreadable as he ate his own burger. They chewed in silence, and Castiel found that the silence was comfortable. His own mind stilled, the other man’s presence was a balm, and he welcomed it. Later, he was sure, his conscious mind would rip in to that detail and strip it away to a cruel analysis of his own loneliness, but for now, it soothed him. He drained the Gatorade gratefully, his parched body greedy for the hydration, and slumped back against the couch, feeling already a thousand times better. He told himself it was just the food. Dean had nothing to do with it.

“How you feelin?” Dean asked, as he finished his burger and crumpled up the greasy paper, tossing it in to the bag and grabbing at the pile of napkins on the coffee table.

“Functionally improved. I now feel like I was hit by only one bus instead of seven.” Dean stood, holding his hand out for Cas’s.

“Bedroom, then? Lead the way.”   Castiel grasped the other man’s hand and pulled himself upright, brushing crumbs from his shirt and craning his neck to stretch out a kink. Dean followed him in to the bedroom, guiding Cas down to lie on the bed and climbing up beside him, a hand resting gently on Cas’s hip as they lay pressed together, their faces only inches apart. Dean slid his hand up off Cas’s hip, under his tee-shirt, and it was warm against his skin. His palm glided gently over Cas’s stomach, his ribs. The touch was soothing, and Cas found that he had no energy to combat with, so again he relinquished the lead. This was not a habit he was going to let himself fall in to, he admonished silently. Next time, he would be in control.

Dean kissed him, slow and sweet. His lips brushed just gently against Cas’s, his tongue darting out to trace the curve. Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed like that. He let Dean control the pressure and the pace, matching his motions and moaning softly against the other man’s mouth, loving the feel of his lips and his tongue and his touch. Cas let his own hand come to rest on Dean’s hip. His thumb traced the waistband of Dean’s jeans, dragging slow and soft against the soft skin there. Cas let Dean drown him in attention. He felt for a brief moment that if this didn’t go anywhere, if all Dean did was kiss him until sleep dragged him under, if all their clothes stayed on and nothing else happened, he could be ok with that.

Dean had other ideas. His hand guided Cas’s hip down to the bed as his mouth found Cas’s throat. Cas let Dean unbutton his jeans, push them down his hips, and he hissed when Dean’s hand wrapped around his hardening cock.

“You with me, Cas?”

“Yeah, Dean.”

“Good.” Dean stroked him attentive and gentle. His thumb flicked over Cas’s head. Cas didn’t think he’d last long. Dean’s hand felt so good, he didn’t even care if it was over practically before it got started. He didn’t have the energy to try to take control, and if he let Dean keep him on this path, there would be no resisting. So he let Dean stroke him, let his hips match the rhythm of Dean’s hand. Each twist of Dean’s wrist brought him closer to orgasm, and to feeling like himself again. Each time Dean’s thumb grazed the tip, he felt a little less like garbage. Cas became a participant, gradually, instead of an observer. He let his hand slide up Dean’s side, under his shirts, and drew his muscled torso as close as he could get it.

Dean let him deepen the kiss for the briefest of moments, before he climbed off the bed. Cas watched as he undressed himself. He really was quite a tease. The button up dropped from his shoulders to pool on the floor, and he dragged the hem of his tee-shirt over his head with an agonizing lack of alacrity. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat as Dean’s chest came in to view, lean and muscled, his broad shoulders flexing as he discarded the garment. His jeans were abandoned much more quickly. Cas devoured Dean’s form with his eyes, the noticeable tenting in his boxer shirts increasing Cas’s arousal exponentially, before Dean tucked his thumbs in the waistband and tugged them down, freeing his erection and leaving the garment on the floor. Now completely nude, he climbed back on to the bed.

Dean dragged Cas’s pants the rest of the way down his legs. His hands glided back up Cas’s thighs, just barely touching, and continued all the way up to push Cas’s tee-shirt up. Cas lifted his arms and let himself be disrobed, trapping Dean’s face in his hands and pulling him into another kiss as soon as his head was free of the fabric. He released Dean’s face and reached an arm over to the nightstand, pulling open a drawer and procuring a condom and a bottle of lube. Dean kept kissing Cas, as he popped the bottle open, and Cas waited for the sensation of fingers pressing in to him. Instead, he was greeted with a groan from Dean, as he slipped a wet finger into his own hole, probing and twisting and opening himself up for Cas. Cas growled against Dean’s mouth, grinding against him with as much upwards force as he could muster. The thought of Dean fingering himself like that, though he couldn’t actually see it from his position pinned to the bed, spurred him on, and he suddenly found he was not so tired after all.

“Fuck, Dean. I want you. Now.” His voice was barely above a whisper; it was all he could manage to force out through the desire that gripped him.

“Yeah Cas. I got you.” Dean lifted himself up, perched over Cas on his knees, as he rolled on a condom. Cas groaned, heady with lust, as Dean guided Cas into himself by tiny increments, long, slow seconds dragging on before he bottomed out, sitting down on Cas’s hips. Dean leaned himself forward then, fitting his mouth back to Cas’s as he began to grind his hips in tantalizing circles. Cas gripped his partner’s hips as he ground his own upwards, matching Dean’s movements as they settled in to a lazy pace. Dean’s face buried itself in the crook of Cas’s neck, and he nipped at where the purple mark had been, two weeks ago, and it was the thing that broke him. His mouth fell open as he came, silent and glorious, and he barely had the presence of mind to reach for Dean’s cock to bring him to messy climax, as well. Dean was less quiet, crying out as Cas’s firm hand gripped him. He collapsed beside Cas, sticky and sated.

“Feeling better?” He asked, though they both knew the answer already.

“Fantastic,” Cas admitted, drawing a deep breath and closing his eyes. “I could use another shower, though.”

Dean joined him in the shower, allowing Cas only the briefest of reprieves to wash himself before pinning him against the wall and rutting their hips together. They stood under the spray, hands and lips roaming everywhere they could reach, until the shower ran cold. Cas stepped out, shivering, as Dean wrapped in him a fluffy towel. He sprawled on the couch in worn sweatpants, let Dean curl up behind him as they watched the entire Dark Knight trilogy. Dean, it seems, had a thing for Batman. He let Dean drape a blanket over them half way through the second film, and didn’t fight it when sleep claimed him near the beginning of the third. When he slept, he dreamt of knives, and rage, and a sea of blood that no ship could sail across, and it was beautiful.

 

Castiel was genuinely surprised to wake up just as he’d fallen asleep: on his couch, cocooned under the worn blanket that had adorned that couch for years before this day, with Dean’s arms around him and Dean’s warmth beside him. It was incredibly unfamiliar, and Castiel’s mind railed against that, the idea of sharing this quiet moment with another person, the vulnerability of it. It wasn’t in his game plan. The last five years, he’d been able to strike a balance between his two lives mostly because he hadn’t made room for anything else. Castiel’s social life was essentially just the people he saw at the coffee shop, and gatherings he couldn’t come up with a believable reason to avoid. He attended dinner parties, and cocktail events, and birthdays in dwindling numbers over the years, maintaining a carefully crafted smokescreen that kept the people he knew from asking any questions at all that might allude to his other life. Now though, when his last kill hadn’t slaked the horrible thirst he wrestled with, the idea of balancing even those two lives filled him with a sense of dread.

Before, when he killed, watching the life drain from those eyes would always bring him such sweet release. He reveled in it. Castiel felt empowered, thrilled, when he took a life, and he’d struck such a perfect balance that he could count the days until the thirst returned and he was force to shelve everything else and seek out a new target. Then the cycle would start again. He was ok, on a certain level, with the way it controlled him, because he understood it, because it worked. And now it didn’t.

Cas stretched on the couch, trying, and failing, not to wake the man tucked in behind him. Dean stirred. His eyes opened slowly, and Castiel couldn’t help noticing again how beautiful he was.

“Good morning. Is it morning? How you feeling?” Dean smiled up at Castiel. He thought, for a second, he might be able to get used to waking up like this, but the nagging voice in the back of his head, the voice that came from the same place as the thirst, told him he couldn’t have it.

The thirst. Castiel had been so wrapped up in his immediate concern over the man reclined on the couch that it hadn’t occurred to him. The bloodthirsty desire that controlled his life, drove him and directed him, the thirst that had plagued him, and had refused to fade when he made his last kill, was conspicuously absent. He should be feeling a nagging sting in the back of his mind, a crawl on the skin of his neck. He should be anxious and angry, full of dread and frustration. That was why he’d drunk himself into oblivion two days ago, to escape the dread that he hadn’t been able to chase away with blood. And now it was gone, and that was just the strangest thing.

“I feel good,” he lied, because he did feel good, by comparison to the previous day’s hang-over, but he felt so very wrong about it. “It’s like, 9. Normal morning time. You didn’t sleep Sunday away, don’t worry.”

“So I can take you out for brunch, then?”

“I’d like to, Dean, but I completely wasted yesterday. I have things to do.” That was a lie too. Castiel was worried if he let himself enjoy Dean’s company, he’d start to believe he could have that in his life, and then it would be so much worse when he had to shut him out completely. Better to keep it just sex. Better if he paid attention to the warning flags his mind was throwing at him. Better to be alone.

 

Castiel’s radio silence lasted a full five days. He wanted to send Dean a message, or call him, or something, anything, but he forced his hands away from his phone time and time again. He dragged his lazy ass out of bed in the grey light of the morning and ran five miles each morning before work, because it wiped his mind to a blank slate and allowed him precious few moments of solitude before he dove headfirst into the fake smiles and false exchanges of coffee shop life.

On Thursday, he started his day like any other. Five miles, a hot shower, khakis and sneakers and three shots of espresso before he started his shift. Castiel put on his “I like people” face, the one he wore when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t plotting he brutal murder of half the customers in the store, let Charlie pick the music because she was just so damned happy when he did, and tried not to count the minutes until the day was over. Around one, when he was just about to take his lunch break, a badge flashed in his face.

“Excuse me, Detective Henrikson, homicide. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” Castiel’s blood ran cold. This was the day he’d dreaded. This was the day he’d had nightmares about since his first glorious kill. They’d found him. Fuck. But the detective wasn’t reaching for his cuffs, or his gun. He pulled a photo out of the folder in his hands and showed it to Castiel.

“Do you recognize this man?” Oh thank fuck. Castiel should have known. If they were here for him, it wouldn’t be a single suit with a folder, it would be uniforms and guns and panic. Castiel tried to keep any hint of emotion off his face, because both his fear and his relief could tell detective Henrikson that there was something worth asking about below the surface. He studied the picture carefully. The man looked familiar, maybe, but he couldn’t place it. Some guy in a suit, close cropped dark hair, and an unctuous smile on his thin lips.

“He looks familiar,” Castiel told the detective. “But I can’t say for sure. I see so many people in here, I don’t think I could tell you anything useful about him.”

Henrickson tucked the photo away and handed Castiel a card.

“His name’s Gregory Hosler. We have reason to believe he was murdered, and he was last seen alive in this neighbourhood. If you remember anything, you give me a call?” Cas assured him that he would, though he couldn’t imagine anything more ironic than a man with as much blood on his hands as he had, helping out with a murder investigation. Still, he tucked the card in to his pocket, and after assuring the bluff faced detective that he could speak to any of the staff he wanted to, Castiel went on lunch break. Asshole that he was, Castiel felt a small sense of satisfaction at the knowledge that smarmy Gregory was dead in a ditch somewhere.

Sinking into the single chair in the back office, Castiel took a bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and glared at it. What possessed him to make such a childish lunch? His cell phone vibrated on the desk and he realized he hadn’t checked for messages yet. He almost choked on his sandwich. The entire screen of his phone was filled with a high-definition, full colour image of Dean’s dick, standing at full attention. He flipped quickly to the next message, fearing for a moment that Charlie or someone else would walk in to the room and get an eyeful.

_You free tonight?_

The message was from Dean. Castiel knew he should make an excuse, tell Dean he had plans or that he didn’t want to see him or _something._ But the only thing his addled brain could process right now was the image of Dean’s cock, hard and slick, and all the things he’d do if he took Dean up on his offer. All the places Cas could put his hands, the way Dean’s body felt pressed up against his, the filthy noises that perfect man would make as he fell to pieces under Cas’s ministrations. Cas smiled at his phone, wolfish and sly, as he sent his answer. He should run away, he knew, but he’d never been good at resisting his desires.

 

Dean, as usual, did not disappoint. Castiel screamed and writhed and clawed his lover’s back as he came, howling wordlessly as Dean rode him into the mattress. He felt drunk on it, for long minutes as they lay panting on the tangled sheets, each too exhausted and sated to move. Castiel came back to himself slowly. He regained control of his thoughts, and he thought of leaving. He was less than half way through the motion of it, ready to tuck and roll, dress in silence and go home to sleep alone, when Dean stopped him with a gentle hand on his hip. He didn’t roll back over to look at the other man, but he could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke.

“Stay.” So he did.

 

 ------------------------------------------------------------------ 

 

Ten weeks. The realization crept over him slowly, seeping in to his consciousness with such an insidious, gradual crawl that he didn’t see it happening until it was right on top of him. Ten weeks of his routine uprooted before he noticed. Ten remarkably comfortable weeks, spending more nights with Dean than without, barely returning to his own apartment. Ten weeks of domesticity and normalcy. Castiel sat at the table in Dean’s apartment, drumming his fingers on the glass countertop as he watched the autumn rain streak down the winter, idly drinking a cup of coffee, when he became consciously aware of what his brain had tacitly acknowledged some time ago. It had been ten whole weeks since he’d failed to satisfy his bloodlust, and he was….ok.

He rolled the thought around in his mind, learning the shape of it with each pass. It had been long years since he thought about the possibility of climbing out from under it. Five years ago, when he’d been driven to draw blood, Castiel had been certain that he’d ride that particular train into his own grave. He could still remember the feel of it, the siren’s call that had guided him then, drawing Castiel out of his own loneliness into the chill of the night. The buzzing in his ears had grown louder and louder over the course of weeks, until he felt like his brains would turn to liquid and spill out his ears. He didn’t understand it at the time. Castiel tore through the night, confused and enraged and near insanity with the sound of it. He had tunnel vision, his mind overwhelmed and his senses heightened. All he saw, all he remembered, was the terror in the eyes of the drifter, thrashing on the dirty ground, as Castiel’s hands closed around his throat. He remembered feeling positively gleeful, as those eyes went blank, and the thrashing stopped. The ringing stopped, too, he realized, as his vision cleared and he wrested control of his mind back from the unseen force that drove him. Ever since that night, he’d lived in a vicious cycle of thirst and the screaming in his ears, and peace bought by blood. Was it really over though?

Did he want it to be?

Cas shook the cobwebs from his thoughts as Dean’s bare feet slapped across the tile floor, fresh from the shower. The towel wrapped around his waist didn’t hide much, he noticed happily. He stood, leaving his cup on the table, and wrapped his arms around Dean in a tender embrace. He smelled like vanilla, a remnant of the soap from his shower, and Castiel inhaled it deeply. Maybe he could have this, he thought idly. Maybe he could have Dean, and a life, without the thirst. Now that he wasn’t driven to kill, maybe he didn’t have to sacrifice everything and end up with nothing.

“I’ve got a work thing tonight. I’ll be out pretty late. Will you be here when I get in?” Dean asked, as he slid out of Cas’s arms and moved to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“I might be,” Cas replied playfully, buoyed by the revelation he’d just come to. “I need to get a change of clothes for work tomorrow, I might just sleep there and do some laundry. I’m running out of socks.”

“Why do you even still have an apartment?” Dean asked, sipping his coffee. “When was the last time you even slept there?” He walked off towards the bedroom to dress, calling out to Cas as he went. “You should at least bring some of your clothes over. It’d be easier.”

“Did you just ask me to move in with you?” Cas followed him in to the bedroom, incredulous.

“I guess I kinda did,” Dean replied, shrugging in to a crisp white shirt. He held up two suits, silently asking for Cas’s opinion. Castiel pointed to the dark grey three-piece, but his attention wasn’t really on the suit. “It’s no big deal. I just figured it makes sense. Look, just think about it ok? I like having you close. I want you here.”

“I’ll think about it.” Cas was quiet as he replied. “I’ll think about it, but I still need to go to my apartment tonight. I don’t want to have go there before work tomorrow. This is the last clean pair of pants I have with me.” He adjusted Dean’s tie, though it was perfectly straight already, and brushed a chaste kiss across his lips. A small smile crept across Castiel’s lips as he watched the man he was apparently going to be living with stride confidently out the door. This was a cause for celebration. And Castiel knew just the thing.

 

Charlie was already waiting outside the store when Castiel arrived at work. She huddled under the awning with her mittened hands tucked under her arms and a knit cap pulled down over her ears.  
“’Bout time, boss,” She muttered as Cas opened the door and disarmed the alarm system. Cas just smiled at her. It was still ungodly early in the morning, but his conversation with Dean in the grey morning hours had an unmistakeable effect on his mood. Cas didn’t enter into this arrangement looking for something real, but he’d found it. He hummed a little as he counted the tills. Charlie picked some up-beat poppy mix CD, and Castiel found himself singing along with her to “I’m Walking on Sunshine” as he set up the espresso bar and she brewed coffee and filled the pastry case. By the time they were ready to open the doors, the smile on Cas’s face wasn’t his standard faux “I like People” face. It was a genuine smile. Charlie danced around the store as they waited for customers to start trickling in.  
The morning unfolded much like any other. Brew coffee, smile at customers, assemble pretentious beverages. Castiel found himself wondering, not for the first time, if any of these assholes would notice the difference if he started intentionally changing orders. He’d been certain for some time that most of their customers rattled off their long and detailed orders with more focus on “What makes me sound like a special snowflake” than “how do I enjoy consuming my coffee.” Around seven thirty, a scrawny twenty-something in a cheap suit (clearly an intern somewhere) dropped a tray with five large lattes on the floor and spilled every single drop, and Castiel spent the next ten minutes trying to clean up the sticky milky mess. Then some trophy wife, wearing at least his annual salary in jewellery, demanded he remake her drink three times because she could apparently tell on the first sip that he’d used the wrong kind of milk. He hadn’t. The first time it was exactly the way she ordered it. The second he added an extra pump of syrup to try to trick her. The third time he gave her decaf, on purpose. She had it coming. By the time the morning rush was over and the café was relatively quiet again, Castiel’s good mood was spoiled and he was back to devising imaginative ways to orchestrate the death of each and every person through the door. But that plastic smile didn’t slip for a second. By now, it was second nature to fake the friendly persona, to ask people how their day was going and pretend he cared what the answer was.  
Charlie returned from her coffee break at the exact moment some absolutely precious private school kid reached the front of the line and decided to answer her cell phone. Cas rolled his eyes. Yup, don’t worry kid, the whole world revolves around you. He generally tried to avoid planning his art projects with those who hadn’t reached the age of majority yet, but between his mood and her genuine obliviousness to the line forming behind her, Cas considered making an exception. Still, he was mildly amused as Charlie walked up to her register, smiled sweetly, and started taking the order of the person behind her.  
“Oh I’m sorry sweetie, you looked busy. You just finish up your phone call and I’ll take your order when you’re all done there. K?” Cas knew her well enough to know the saccharine sweetness in her voice was code for “you’re stupid and I hate you”, but princess trust fund was too wrapped up in her conversation to pick up on that. He couldn’t help but take a little delight in the shocked look on her face at the rebuff. He looked up as the door opened again, expecting office workers on their break or something to that effect, and was pleasantly surprised when Dean strolled through instead.  
“Alfie, take over for me? I’m going on break.” He called, pausing only a moment to make sure the kid heard. Alfie wasn’t the greatest barista, but his heart was in the right place and he tried hard. Plus he seemed to genuinely like people. It might be his saving grace in this job.  
“What are you doing here?” Castiel smiled at Dean as he stepped out from behind the counter, an actual genuine smile, not the fake plastic one he’d been wearing all morning. He kissed Dean, letting his lips brush across the taller man’s for just a brief second before snagging an empty table and setting his coffee down. Early shifts were draining. It wasn’t his first coffee of the day and it wasn’t going to be his last. Not if he wanted to be conscious to enjoy the celebration he had planned. Dean took the seat across from Cas, settling in to the wooden chair with ease and grace. Castiel loved the way he moved.  
“I came to bring you this.” Dean slid something across the table, obscured under his palm. When the hand retreated, Cas was left looking at a small device on a key ring. “If you’re going to move in, it would make sense for you to be able to get in to the building without me.” Cas honestly hadn’t thought of that. He’d spent plenty of time in the condo without Dean present. It wasn’t like he was only now being granted leave to occupy the space unsupervised. It’s just that he’d always arrived with Dean, or while Dean was already there, and then Dean had left for work or for a meeting or to go do whatever it was he did when he was entertaining clients in the evenings. Cas tucked the fob into his pocket.  
“I didn’t say I was moving in,” he teased. “I told you I’d think about it.”  
“And I told you, I can read you like a book. You thought about it for all of two seconds. You’re moving in, you’re giving notice on your apartment, and you’re already wondering if there’s enough room in the closet for all your things or if we need to buy another dresser. Am I right?” Castiel rolled his eyes, but gave a grudging nod. That’s exactly what he was thinking.  
“So what time do you think you’ll be in tonight? Should I wait up?”  
“If you want to. Otherwise I’ll just wake you up when I get in. I don’t know exactly what time I’ll be done, but late. Definitely late. You going to start moving things over tonight?” Dean reached across the table and grabbed Castiel’s lukewarm coffee, and his face twisted as he took a sip. “Ugh. Milk.”  
“I don’t know what you were expecting. You know how I take it.” Dean raised an eyebrow at the unintentional double entendre. “Shut up. You know that’s not what I mean.” Dean stood, smoothing his suit jacket over his hips.  
“I have to get back to work. Hook me up with a real coffee?” He brushed a kiss across Cas’s cheek. Cas ducked behind the counter and poured him a fresh cup of coffee, steaming hot and black, just the way he liked it. He let Dean drag him into a much less chaste kiss and came away breathless, watching Dean walk out the door with a vacant look on his face, wondering for the thousandth time how he got so lucky.  
“Who’s the stud?” Charlie jabbed, as he resumed his place behind the counter. Castiel felt heat rise in his cheeks. “Wait, is that the same suit who asked for your number that time? The one you totally pretended not to be checking out?”  
“Be quiet Charlie.”  
“Oh my god you’re blushing you’re actually blushing.” She squeaked and flailed and Castiel tried to make a show of disdain for the attention, but Dean’s visit had left him in far too high spirits to really mean it.  
“I could fire you, you know.” He smirked and threw a rag across the store at her. She caught it underhand and tossed it in to the sink.  
“Yeah but then who would tell you how cute you guys look together. Is it serious?”  
“It’s serious enough.”  
“So do you know all his dark secrets yet?” Charlie had a habit of being remarkably nosy, especially with people she considered friends. Apparently that included Castiel.  
“Charlie, I don’t think he has any dark secrets,” Castiel scoffed.  
“How do you know? Are there any rooms he doesn’t let you in? Does his phone ring at random hours of the night? Does he go out for hours and never tell you where he’s been? Maybe he’s some kind of secret agent. Maybe he’s an assassin. Or maybe he’s an axe murderer and he just wears nice suits as misdirection!”  
“My boyfriend is not an axe murderer Charlie. Your conspiracy stories are getting insane. I’m switching you to decaf.” He cringed slightly as the b-word slipped out. Charlie was never going to let up now. 

Castiel spared very little time at his soon to be former apartment that evening. He loaded up a suitcase with all the clothes he cared to take with him for the time being. His suit was already hanging in the closet at Dean’s condo—Dean’s and his condo, now; left behind after a date somewhere that had predictably ended in sex. A lot of things had carelessly migrated there over the past few months, and Castiel hadn’t really noticed until it came time to pack things up how little there was left here that he really cared about. None of his furniture was in particularly good shape; managing a chain coffee shop did not afford him the luxury of a lot of nice things, so most of it was second hand. Dean’s kitchen appliances were all newer than his. Other than his books, and the remainder of his clothing, there was next to nothing here that Castiel even wanted.  
He opened the fridge and was immediately reminded that he hadn’t bought groceries here in over a month. He’d spent one night here last week before an early shift and he hadn’t come home early enough to care about food. It didn’t matter. He preferred to hunt on an empty stomach anyway. As he wheeled his suitcase out of the lonely apartment, Castiel spared a passing thought for his old life, the one where he was forced to choose between the things he wanted to do and the things he needed to do. Once, he thought he’d miss the thirst if it ever left him. Now he was glad he could pick his targets on his own schedule. He already had a pretty good idea where he’d go to find a dance partner for his celebration tonight. A neighbourhood where he could hunt unseen, where he was likely to find someone who wouldn’t be missed too soon or too greatly. Tonight was going to be a beautiful night, and then he could go home to Dean. He could finally have everything.

 

The jacket he wore was too thin for the late November chill, and somewhere in the back of his mind Castiel was aware of the way the air pebbled his skin, but he was too jacked up to react. He fisted his hands in his pockets; leaning against the damp brick in what he hoped was a fair imitation of casual. Someone would walk into the alley eventually, some faceless, nameless person, oblivious to the terror that awaited them. That’s where he’d fall on them, his knife at the ready, and draw out the blood that sang to him. Castiel understood now. Without the ringing in his ears driving him to kill, he finally understood. It was never about slaking the thirst. That was the true façade. The hunger he felt, the drive to kill, it was never about that screaming in his mind. Underneath all of that, he _wanted_ it. And now, free from that control, for whatever glorious reason, he didn’t kill because he needed to. He could kill because he wanted to.

The featherlight fall of footsteps on the pavement grabbed his attention. Castiel made himself as small as possible, blended in to his surroundings with silence and patience. His face was hidden in shadows. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the woman, , her worn coat pulled close against the chill, as she turned the corner and ducked in to the alley. She didn’t seem to notice she was being watched. Castiel waited, giving her enough time to pass out of the streetlight’s range and into shadow before turning to follow. As he did though, he caught sight of another form heading into the same alley, a taller male form, and his blood ran like ice. He’d know the set of those shoulders anywhere.

Castiel’s feet were moving before his mind had processed the information. He slunk in to the alley, quiet as he dared, no plan for what he’d do when he reached the dark corners. He picked his path carefully, daring to make no sound as he rounded the corner, easing himself into the waiting darkness, until he was close enough to see. Castiel drew up short, stopping himself a bare few paces away from where the woman thrashed in her attacker’s grip. The hand over her mouth muffled her screams, but even at a distance, Castiel could see the terror in his eyes. He should be the cause of that terror, he thought idly, as he watched. He didn’t intervene as the scant light in the alleyway flashed off the blade of a knife, stood silently by as that blade dragged smooth and sharp across her throat, didn’t move at all as the blade wiped clean on the sleeve of her coat. Castiel felt like he’d intruded on something very private.

“Dean?” His own voice sounded out, soft and strained. Dean froze, so wrapped up in his task that he hadn’t notice Castiel’s arrival. He stood slowly, turning to face Castiel with such an economy of motion that he barely seemed to move at all. His eyes were cold as they fell on Castiel’s face, his jaw tense.

“What are you doing here, Cas?” He still clutched the knife in his hand, knuckles white on the handle.

“I could ask you the same question. Who is she?” Now, like their first night together, Castiel wanted to keep the upper hand. Anything he revealed now needed to be on his terms. There was a side to Dean he hadn’t realized even existed, and he needed to tread carefully.

“Bitch sold her kids to a pimp. Did you follow me? Have you been tailing me?” Dean kept his anger boiling just below the surface. His eyes didn’t leave Cas’s except to blink, and he nearly vibrated with the effort of containing his raw emotion.

“So what, you’re like an avenging angel?”

“I think that we should have this conversation elsewhere, if that’s all the same to you. I would really rather not linger.”

 

When the last of the blood was washed away, Castiel sat across from Dean at the same table he’d occupied that morning. He watched his lover’s face intently, reading all the subtle signs on his face. Dean was silent. It was like he was daring Castiel to speak first.

“Tell me everything,” Castiel commanded. Dean’s eyes snapped shut, like he could shut out the scenario if he chose not to see it. “The truth. All of it.” He was silent for a moment, as if trying to decide where to begin.

“She’s not the first.” He stated bluntly. “Not by a long shot. I stopped counting years ago. I take out people who need taking out. I do what needs to be done.”

“You almost sound like you believe that.”

“It’s true, Cas. What else do you want me to say? I kill bad people. You remember that dick in the coffee shop, the day we met? Gregory? He was a pedophile. Had a thing for little girls. Past tense. I cut down soulless motherfuckers like that guy.” Castiel didn’t let himself react to that last. He’d tell Dean about his interaction with the cops, later. After he established the new dynamic.

“I want you to admit that’s not what you’re doing. I watched you do it. I saw the look in your eyes. You might pick your targets because they need taking out, but you do what you do for very different reasons. You enjoy it.” Castiel let himself smile at Dean, just a little, as he watched the heat rise in the other man’s cheeks. Dean dropped his eyes, staring at his hands for a minute that dragged on for an eternity. When he looked at Castiel again, the rage had faded, but something darker had replaced it. Castiel imagined his own eyes looked the same way when he thought about his art projects.

“And what were you doing out there tonight Cas? Just taking a nice midnight stroll? Or were you following me?”

“Not at all, Dean. I had no idea I’d find you there.”

“Bullshit. Why the hell else would you be in the shitty part of town in the middle of the night? Has this all been lies, Cas? You gonna turn me in now?” Dean pushed himself away from the table, his movements so much more calm than his voice. He poured himself a double portion of whiskey, drinking half the glass in one mouthful. Glass still in hand, he turned back towards Castiel, an implacable calm on his features.

“Why would I do that, Dean?” Castiel let his voice rumble low, the same purr he used in the bedroom, as he crossed the room and invaded Dean’s personal space. “Why in the hell would I turn you in? You want to know what I was doing in that alley tonight, Dean? I was there for the exact same reason you were. I was going to kill that woman. That’s how I know you’re lying to me. You don’t do this because you’re some hero.” He took the glass from Dean’s hand and set it on the counter before pressing himself in close. Castiel let his knee slip between Dean’s thighs and brought his face up to Dean’s ear. His voice was breathy and low. “You do this because you like it. You do it because you want to. Just like I do.” Dean merely growled in reply. He stood motionless as Castiel ground their hips together, pinning Dean against the counter, but every muscle in his body was tense, rigid. Castiel could feel Dean’s cock through his jeans, hardening in response to Cas’s proximity. “Isn’t that right, Dean?” he murmured, dragging his lips down Dean’s throat.

Dean’s breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps, as he took Cas’s face in his hands and drew him into a forceful kiss. He bit Castiel’s lip, and Cas tasted blood, but Dean didn’t pull away. His tongue plunged in to Castiel’s mouth, searching and probing. Castiel let him lead the kiss for a moment, let Dean have his fun, then he grabbed a rough handful of Dean’s hair and jerked his head back. Dean grunted, but he didn’t move to pull his head free. Castiel licked a stripe up his throat, feeling a swell of delight at the raw noises Dean made as he did.

“I believe I asked you a question,” Castiel rasped. His own arousal was clouding his mind now, but this wasn’t about the sex. It could be, later. If Dean co-operated, it could be. He rolled his hips again, just a little, just enough to remind Dean of the heat between them of how close they were pressed together. Dean groaned.

“Yes!” He breathed, his eyes squeezed shut. “I fucking love it.” He reached for Castiel’s hips, pulling on him grasping tight, though they were already pressed as close as could be. “Is that what you want to hear? That I’m a monster?” Cas loosened his fingers in Dean’s hair, letting his hand drag down to cup the side of his face, a thumb dragging across the stubble on his jaw.

“There’s no such thing as monsters, Dean. Just men who stopped lying to themselves.” Dean swallowed the words as soon as he spoke them, invading Castiel’s mouth with his tongue, chasing him away from the counter as his hands clutched frantically at Castiel’s ass. Dean kissed him with abandon, vicious and hungry, attacking Castiel’s mouth with teeth and tongue and lips, and in spite of himself Castiel moaned against Dean’s mouth. He tore at Dean’s clothes, popping buttons off his shirt in his haste, and Dean was naked from the waist up by the time he’d backed Castiel into the bedroom.

Castiel was bound and determined to stay in control. His hands flew to Dean’s pants as he spun him around, warring with the button and zipper briefly before yanking the denim and Dean’s underwear down over his hips. He shoved Dean roughly toward the bed. The startled look on his face was more than worth it. Castiel pulled his own shirt off over his head, moving more slowly than necessary, making sure Dean was watching as he revealed himself inch by agonizing inch. He stepped out of his jeans, noting with interest how Dean’s hand reached for his own cock as his eyes took Cas in with rapt attention. Castiel climbed on to the bed, forcing his lover’s hands away from his body as he knelt over Dean’s hips.

He dragged his hands lazily over Dean’s chest as he perched above him. He let Dean place his hands on Castiel’s hips, but swatted him away when he tried to touch him elsewhere. Castiel was in control now. This was his game. That was a thrilling thought all on its own. Dean was so forceful, usually. It was a delicious change of pace.

Castiel reached for the lube without preamble. He knew Dean wanted Cas’s attention on his dick, but he wanted to made Dean beg. A single slick finger pressed up against Dean’s hole brought lovely whimpers from his lips, but no begging. Castiel worked him open with haste, his other hand on his own cock. It was more for Dean’s benefit than his own. He watched Cas intently as his hand slid up slowly along his shaft.

The cry that fell from Dean’s lips, the flush on his face, told Castiel that he’d found the spot. He let his fingers graze across the bundle of nerves with every stroke. Within moments, he had the reaction he’d been waiting for.

“Fuck Cas! Please…I need....FUCK!” Dean cried out, writhing as Cas’s fingers plunged into him over and over. Cas smirked at him.

“What do you need, Dean?” He played at ignorance. “Tell me.” Dean was so beautiful like this, wrecked and needy and begging. Castiel wanted to drag it out, make him scream for it. Another time, he’d have to return the favour of the silk scarves and really make Dean beg. Tonight, Cas wasn’t sure he had the patience.

“I need you to fuck me! Please! Just fuck me!” Even begging, Dean was demanding. His chest heaved and his back arched as Castiel jabbed his prostate one last time, then withdrew and rolled on a condom. He shoved Dean over on to hands and knees roughly, hauling his ass up into the air. The soft whine that escaped Deans lips as Cas slid the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscle was simply delicious. He started the easy roll of his hips as soon as he was fully inside Dean, but it soon became a frantic pounding. Cas’s hands pressed purple bruises into Dean’s hips as he leveraged himself, pulling Dean back on to his dick as he slammed home, hard and fast and rough.

“Is this what you need, Dean?” He purred, his own breath coming in short pants now too.   “Is this what you wanted?” His hand snaked underneath to grip Dean’s cock, tugging him in short jerks as he rode Dean hard and fast. Castiel was met with only wordless howls in reply, as Dean’s orgasm ripped through him, coming over Castiel’s fist and spilling on to the mattress. On instinct, Castiel raised his other hand and slapped Dean’s ass, the sharp smack resonating. Dean jerked in response, but he also pushed himself back onto Cas’s dick harder. Before long, Castiel felt his own orgasm grip him tight. He shut his eyes and cried out Dean’s name as his hips faltered and his ears rang and his blood was lit on fire with ecstasy. Castiel rode Dean until he couldn’t move any longer, then reclined on the mattress beside his sated lover.

“Never deny what you are, Dean,” he said, as he kissed the sweat on his brow. Dean just smiled back at him.

 

 

What had been a bright blanket of freshly fallen snow that morning had melted into a dirty grey slush by the time the sun set. The streets were mostly vacant, people huddled in their homes to escape the chill, hoarding warmth. It was nearly Christmas. For the first time in years, Castiel felt the spirit of the season.

            Dean led the way, hands stuffed in his pockets, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile as he trailed close behind. He was looking forward to this. Cold air stung his cheeks and chapped his lips, wind whipped at his already messy hair, but he just tugged his jacket closer and ducked his head. When Dean held the door open for him, he slipped in gratefully and let the relative warmth bring the feeling back into his fingers.

            “Tell me again,” Castiel murmured as he rubbed his hands, willing them back to life. Dean had his hand on the door to the basement, but he paused, turned around to smile at Castiel.

“Behind this door,” Dean began, walking over to place his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “and down these stairs, is a spoiled rich kid who raped three girls at frat parties last semester alone. Daddy has deep pockets though, so he’s got a clean record. Tonight, he’s going to die. And we’re going to do it together.” Castiel beamed at him. It had been Dean’s idea at first, to combine their talents. Castiel hadn’t hesitated for a second. He finally understood. He didn’t need the thirst to guide him anymore. He didn’t need that humming in his bones to tell him what to do, or when to do it. He had Dean now.


End file.
